


On the Top

by JohnnysFrenchPress (CoffeeColoredMornings)



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Mafia NCT, Making Out, fight to the death, mild frottage, underground fighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:20:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26321776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeColoredMornings/pseuds/JohnnysFrenchPress
Summary: Tucked into the outskirts of Seoul, is a large warehouse. The lingering smells of iron and sawdust never leave this place; the current swirling scent of perfumes and sweat only come once a year for a competition of flesh and bone. Bloodsport, Johnny had told him years ago when he first took Taeyong to the hallowed warehouse.
Relationships: Lee Taeyong/Suh Youngho | Johnny
Comments: 16
Kudos: 65
Collections: Johnyong Manito Project Round 1





	On the Top

**Author's Note:**

> Johnyong Manito Entry
> 
> Warnings: This features blood and gore. The prompt included Taeyong participating in a fight to the death. This means Taeyong will be killing people in this fic, ergo the Dead Dove tag. If this makes you uncomfortable, do not read this fic.
> 
> Title Source: [JINJER - On The Top](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BROMMobZVbQ)  
>  _MV does contain some violent imagery._

The cane is dark ebony wood, ornately crafted and topped with a solid silver dragon, it’s sinuous body flaring out to compose a handle. Spiraling up the silver fixture is a snake, thin enough to be nearly missed but polished well enough into stark relief to inevitably draw the eye of anyone who stares long enough. The snake, most people comment behind shielded hands, is never missed.

Taeyong always sees the snake. It is akin to the dragon, not as grand, but with its own grace and power, forever intertwined with the greater beast. Though it is beneath him, Taeyong cleans the silver handle often enough to know the individual scales of both creatures better than the swirls of his own fingerprint. Above all, Taeyong knows intimately the proximity of the snake’s head to the dragon’s—a kiss’ distance away. That, Taeyong had long ago decided, is his favorite part of the cane.

The bottom of the cane is stoppered with similarly cared for silver. Clicking against the concrete of a gutted warehouse, the sound is almost delicate. Heads still turn when the rhythmic tapping of the cane passes by.

Tucked into the outskirts of Seoul, is a large warehouse. The lingering smells of iron and sawdust never leave this place; the current swirling scent of perfumes and sweat only come once a year for a competition of flesh and bone. _Bloodsport_ , Johnny had told him years ago when he first took Taeyong to the hallowed warehouse.

Johnny’s hand is a warm presence against Taeyong’s lower back, small exertions of pressure from his fingertips guiding them closer to the ring.

A jeering crowd is already gathered around the roped-off section of flooring. Smoke fills the air—expensive cigars tucked between the teeth of well-dressed men and women, cheaper cigarettes found in the mouths of those surrounding the kingpin figures.

“Do you want to watch?” Johnny asks, breath brushing up against Taeyong’s ear.

Taeyong hums noncommittally, leaning back into Johnny's chest. He feels hands grip his hips, but he knows Johnny is tracking the two fighters in the ring just as he is. The two men are circling each other, representatives of lower families, already showing their loyalty in a spill of blood.

There is little honor within the ring. The goal is simple—win, at all costs.

"The brunette," Taeyong says. He watches as the brunette man takes a solid punch from his opponent, a spray of blood spilling onto the sawdust beneath their feet.

"A Kwon representative," Johnny hums, "against a Lim."

"He'll win."

"So sure?" Johnny asks, voice low and level.

A small smile teases at the corners of Taeyong's lips. He doesn't play into Johnny's question right away, watches as Kwon's opponent misses an opportunity to land a solid hit. They both are fighting bare knuckles, blood staining their skin a thick red.

"Kwon's opponent is weak in his left leg," Taeyong says, and thumbs dig further into his hips. The Lim fighter staggers back, weight favoring his right side. "His guard—he drops his guard after he rushes."

Johnny chuckles as the Lim man drops his guard and opens himself to the Kwon representative using his momentum to flip him. "It's over," Johnny says.

There is a dark spark in Taeyong's eyes and the Kwon representative slams the Lim's fighter into the ground. The dull thud of skull against concrete is a familiar sound to both Taeyong and Johnny.

"Five."

"Seven," Johnny counters.

They watch as the Kwon's representative heaves the Lim's fighter head up once more and slams it back down. Johnny mouths the number four against Taeyong's neck. The ground is nearly as dark as the 20-year-old merlot Johnny has in his wine cellar, but the spreading red is much more viscous as it seeps into the sawdust.

Five. Taeyong shudders at the flick of Johnny's tongue. The Lim man twitches. Six. Seven is delivered with a sharp nip of teeth.

"I win," Johnny rumbles, amusement thick in his voice.

"One day, I'll win," Taeyong answers, turning around to see Johnny's eyebrows raised in mocking disbelief.

Johnny's cane clicks against the cement, a sound Taeyong tunes into more than the slither of the clean-up crew dragging the body of Lim's dead fighter out of the ring, more than the raised voices of celebration and calls for bets. Johnny's hand is back at the small of Taeyong's back, leading him to the skeletal staircase and up to the metal balcony crowning the circumference of the warehouse.

Leading families are stationed in well-sectioned clumps on the balcony. Impassive faces stare down at the ring and the pulsing crowd down below; smartly dressed staff supply aged whiskey and wine, the familiar perfume of Romeo y Julieta and Cohiba cigars circle in the air.

The Seo's space is right above the ring—God's view of the action. It is a spot won by spilling blood. Pride swells in Taeyong's chest as Johnny takes his rightful place, standing at the head of it all, leaned against the fortified railing.

Johnny stares in mild interest as the next fight begins. Taeyong slides on his right side, eyes flickering down long enough to see the next competitors draw their weapons: dagger and vinculum.

"Today," Johnny begins. He snaps his fingers sending his men scrambling to prep his cigar, but his eyes do not leave the fighting down below. He waits until his cigar has been clipped and lit, taking a deep inhale. When he exhales, Taeyong takes in a lungful of Cohiba Spectre 2019. "Today, you will win." Johnny smiles and takes another puff, the smoke snaking out through his nose in a plume. "But not against me."

Taeyong smiles, something small and aimed just at Johnny's profile. "No," Taeyong murmurs and fixes his focus on the match.

He watches as the woman with the vinculum slams the spiked ball into her opponent's face. Skin and flesh are shredded easily beneath the blunt hit, and when Taeyong squints he can see the glint of white bone on the man's cheek.

"Vinculum," Taeyong says and Johnny nods almost imperceptibly.

"Wasted dagger." Johnny's jaw tightens and Taeyong knows he's disappointed by the quickly ending match.

His fingers itch to trace the thin, jagged lines beneath Johnny's shirt. Unlike the man below, Johnny had faced enough opponents in the ring to bear the scars attesting to the skill of the weapons' wielders; Johnny's skill is shown in each breath he takes.

The crowd roars as the vinculum makes pulp of the man's face. The woman is awash in victory, blood and bits of flesh cling to her like a second skin.

On large boards on either side of the warehouse, the woman's name moves rank in the lower rounds. The lower tourney is almost done; the names of those belonging to the larger and leading families are fixed in the initial matches or the upper tourney. Taeyong's name is easy to spot with the Seo's dragon insignia—the blocky printing of his name familiar now after two years of fighting.

Once it had been Johnny's name, clinging to the leaderboards and slowly climbing to the top of the upper tourney year after year. The heir and prodigal son fighting for his own name. Taeyong remembers the first time he kissed Johnny at the warehouse, tasted the iron tang of victory on Johnny's lips, and felt the warmth of winning sliding slippery and sticky between his fingers as he clutched Johnny to him.

Perhaps Johnny’s name would still be clinging on the board if not for his accident three years ago. A repressed coup in their family led to the loss of Johnny's father and landed Johnny as their new leader and chained to a cane.

When it came time to fight in the warehouse, it went without question that Taeyong volunteered. Over the years, he had come to appreciate the bloodsport—the ring where honor is earned by fighting without honor. _Let me be your weapon_ , Taeyong had said, pressed the words into the skin of Johnny’s chest, his neck. _Let me honor you._

Taeyong closes his eyes and breathes. When he tunes in, Johnny is done with his cigar. The cleaning crew is spreading a new layer of sawdust across the floor of the ring. The upper tourney is slated to begin and Taeyong feels like a lightning storm is brewing within him, cracking along his synapses.

“Ready?” Johnny asks, eyes slanted on the blond male.

“What do you think I’ll get first?”

“Hammer.”

Taeyong purses his lips. “Boring,” he says, the word dragging through pouted lips.

“The first few rounds always are. You’ll end it quickly.”

Johnny’s right—the first few rounds end relatively quickly. Taeyong does draw the hammer in his second fight and wins after repeatedly slamming it home in his opponent’s face. 

His fourth fight finds him with a haladie and hands slick with viscera as he swipes the double-ended blade through his opponent’s stomach, the soft flesh giving underneath the forceful dig of the blade.

By the time Yuta and Yukhei escort Taeyong back up to Johnny, the final match for the tourney is set. Cha representative versus Seo.

Donghyuck has Taeyong leaning against the wall on the balcony. Their young doctor is working quickly to stop the blood flow from a wound on Taeyong’s temple, long blond hair matted with sanguineous bits of flesh.

“Do you need me to rewrap your torso?” Donghyuck asks, gesturing to the linen bandages where drops of ruby are slowly seeping through.

Taeyong resists pressing a hand against his sternum, the crisscrossing cuts throbbing at the sudden attention. “No,” Taeyong shakes his head, eyes focused on Johnny’s broad back.

“Wrap his right ankle,” Johnny instructs, leaning further into the railing. Donghyuck does as instructed. Johnny turns just enough to watch sure hands tighten the bandages around Taeyong’s ankle. “Don’t show that you’re favoring your left.”

Taeyong grunts in understanding, testing the distribution of his weight once Donghyuck lets him go. It’s difficult, trying to hide a grimace as sharp pain shoots up his leg. Breath hisses between his teeth. Taeyong settles into the pain, into the dull throbs and acute stings pinging across his body. His stomach flips, a deep, swelling pang kept at bay by Taeyong’s tightening lips.

He refuses to puke. There would be nothing to show for the action, just stomach bile.

“Here.” A bright green leaf shoves under his nose. “Open.” Johnny places the leaf in Taeyong’s open mouth, fingers lingering a stroke too long across the busted edge of the fighter’s lip. “Chew.”

Mint explodes across Taeyong’s palette, pungent and refreshingly spicy. Breathing through his nose, Taeyong focuses on relaxing each tensed muscle; his stomach settles into a calmer unease—manageable but still not ideal.

When Taeyong finally looks back up, Johnny’s eyes are glittering a flinty obsidian, mouth a grim line.

“Last round.”

Johnny nods. The muscles in his bicep tense. Taeyong trails the movement to his left hand, bleach-white knuckles gripping the dragon body handle of the cane.

“Taeyong,” Yuta interjects, “time to go.”

The barely-there press of Johnny’s palm against his lower back stays on Taeyong’s skin as he walks down the stairs. He carries the parting touch with him into the ring.

Blood and sinew mottle the floor. There are the stringy strands of his fourth-round opponent’s guts still sticking to the concrete, simply covered by a haphazard layer of pale-wheat sawdust.

Taeyong spits the chewed-up mint leaf onto the floor.

“Fighters,” an official steps into the ring, a small box in his hands, “to the center please.”

Both men walk towards the official. The Cha representative is broad, muscles more thickly defined than they are on Taeyong. His left eye is swelling and bandages cord his torso in a similar fashion as Taeyong’s. He does not limp when he walks, but Taeyong sees the nearly lifeless twitch of his right hand, rust-stained wraps giving hint of injury.

“Seo first,” the official says, offering the box to Taeyong.

With confident movements, Taeyong slips his hand into the box for the fifth time tonight. The thick folds of paper brushing against the pads of his paper. He withdraws his hand, a slip folded in half in his hands. His opponent does the same.

“Seo, slip.” The official takes Taeyong’s paper and unfolds it. The man waits for a beat and the curiosity of the crowd seems to press in on them like a leaden weight. “Brass knuckles!”

There’s a clamor from the onlookers. Taeyong steps back and waits—waits to receive his weapon, waits to see as the official panders the same routine to the crowd, but with the Cha’s fighter’s weapon in hand. “Spiked knuckles!”

The screaming is louder at this announcement. Taeyong allows another official to slip on his brass knuckles, fingers flexing and curling around the cold metal.

“Fighters, face off!” The officials step out of the ring, and the fighters walk to separate sides.

A small bed of sharp-toothed nails sticks out of the sturdy leather gloves on the Cha fighter’s hands. Taeyong tucks his thumbs across the first two fingers of each hand, forming a solid fist.

“Seo, Cha,” Taeyong breathes deeply, focusing on the taste of mint on his tongue. “Fight!”

There is no circling in this round, no testing of wits or patience. Cha’s fighter advances and Taeyong responds.

Taeyong dodges a barreling shoulder aimed at his solar plexus. His angle twinges, a radiating pain that he ignores as he twists and shoves his foot in the man’s back. Weight is not on Taeyong’s side—the man only stumbles, but it’s enough for Taeyong to swoop in and land three quick blows.

Brass knuckles come back bloody. There is only a moment to relish in the sight before an elbow connects with his face. He feels the split in his upper lip, his nose burns—not broken, but blood gushes warm down his face.

Falling back, Taeyong quickly blinks the blur of tears from his eyes. The next swipes of the spiked knuckles land in varying accuracy. Cha’s fighter is quick. Taeyong, even with his twisted ankle, is quicker. The lag and lack of force in Cha’s right punch has Taeyong escaping severe damage, but the deep gashes along his ribs still pulse with angry pain.

The first mistake is made when his opponent does not press his momentum, instead, falling back after landing one last kick to Taeyong’s hip. Taeyong gives ground once more, breaths shuddering through his lungs and rasping against his split lips on each exhale. He only has to wait a moment before Cha’s fighter is charging at him once more. Bracing himself, Taeyong moves like a whip—coiled and tight before releasing, snapping out in a sharp turn and using his opponent’s mass against him.

Slamming into the man’s side, Taeyong follows through with a shattering punch to the nape of the man’s head. Cha’s fighter hunches over and Taeyong follows as if they are in a dance. Movements fluid, Taeyong twists and delivers a back kick.

The pained groan and dense thud of the man’s body hitting the ground sinks syrup-sweet into Taeyong. There is no hesitation in driving his boots into the downed man’s side. Taeyong keeps kicking, feels the give of bone underneath his foot, a tale-tell crack feeds into his senses and the man is flat on his back.

Taeyong straddles Cha’s fighter with a one-track mind. He rains dogged blows down on the man’s face. There is a faint scraping along his legs; subconsciously, he’s aware that the man is digging the spiked-knuckles into his flesh in a frantic scramble.

Flesh splits in a plush snap beneath Taeyong’s fist. He watches—a hyper-focused awareness as the skin of the man’s face slowly flays off with the pound of his fists. The metals of the brass knuckles are warm and slippery in his hands and yet he keeps a tight grip. He drives down until he sees white, then white turns red and splinters into fragmented pieces.

Sound filters in first—a viscid squelch of what was once the Cha fighter’s head as it gives way to the force of Taeyong’s punches. There is someone screaming—many voices screaming.

“Seo—victor!”

Taeyong realizes the man beneath him is no longer digging his knuckles into his legs.

“Yong. Taeyong.” Gentle hands pry him up. Taeyong’s mouth no longer tastes like mint. “Yong.” A wet towel is shoved against his face, wiping roughly at the congealing mess coating his skin. “Good job.”

“Good job?” Taeyong’s eyes list over the room. The crowd on the ground floor is in a frenzy, a tide of pulsing bodies collecting their earnings or nursing their losses. He feels the brush of wet cotton against his nose. The flare of pain makes his eyes water and the faces looking down at him from the balcony wrapping around the warehouse blur.

“You won, Yong,” Yuta murmurs. “You won.”

Taeyong looks up. The fluorescent lights of the warehouse beat down a watery yellow, but they are enough to illuminate Johnny standing right above him at the pride of the place. The smile that curves plush lips is small, but the honey eyes looking down at him are warm.

“I won,” Taeyong says, still looking up a Johnny.

“Let’s get you to Donghyuck.”

Yuta guides him out of the ring, Jaehyun and Yukhei flanking their sides as they pass through the crowd. The congratulations that are pressed on him do not sink in.

“That’s Seo’s man,” a boisterous voice breaks through the mess of voices.

“He belongs to Johnny.” Taeyong’s head tracks to the side— seeks out the deep voice that identifies him as Johnny’s.

Faces melt into flickers of muted color. He hears more whispers of him being Johnny’s boy—of the Seo’s dog finally let loose.

Warmth unfurls in his stomach. The feeling suffuses through his chest. Victory is less of a taste and more like the smooth slide of a top-shelf bourbon— a burning in the throat and the following encompassing warmth that spreads throughout the body.

There is victory in being alive. There is greater victory, Taeyong thinks, in being a Seo representative, of maintaining their honor, of maintaining Johnny’s legacy, of being _Johnny’s_. Taeyong’s fingers tingle at the thought. His heart flutters and lodges in his throat as he mounts the stairs.

Taeyong does not go to Donghyuck like Yuta intends. He gravitates to Johnny, unable to resist his pull. Large hands cup his face. Taeyong beams—feels the skin of his split lips pull.

Honey eyes stare down at him, so honest and awed and Taeyong never wants to leave range of Johnny’s gaze. Johnny’s eyes flick down to Taeyong’s lips then back to his dark, doe-eyes.

When their lips meet, there is no regard for decorum. Johnny dives in like a parched man receiving water. Taeyong gives—opens up underneath the plush press of lips, the seeking tongue the soothes over his wounds and lick into his mouth.

Johnny tastes sweet, something dark and addicting, and Taeyong moans into their kiss. He’s guided back, pressed into the wall as lips press against his neck.

Taeyong arches into Johnny, taking on his weight as the dark-haired man leans into him, cane long forgotten. Johnny’s hands are brands burning into his skin, his lips leaving bruises of ownership along the long line of his neck.

A roll of his hips has Johnny groaning into the crook of his neck. Taeyong slots his thighs in between Johnny’s leg, neither caring about the tacky blood that seeps into expensive slacks as Johnny grinds down.

Johnny claims Taeyong’s lips once more, hands pushing through the filth of blood and matter on Taeyong’s torso to thumb at the notches of his hips, the divots between each rib, the perk peak of his nipples.

Rocking his thigh against Johnny’s hardening cock, Taeyong offers a stream of steady whimpers, letting Johnny swallow them. A seeking tongue flicks against the roof of his mouth and hips press into his, begging for more.

Their lips part with a slick sound. Johnny’s pupils are dilated, hips rocking against Taeyong’s thigh. Taeyong pets down Johnny’s sides—presses soft kisses along his neck in consolation as he removes his thigh from between Johnny’s legs.

He accepts the frustrated groan that rumbles against his lips. Nipping his way up to Johnny’s ear, he presses a wet kiss to his pulse point in apology. “Later,” Taeyong breathes. He pulls back, meeting Johnny’s eyes. Reaching to the side, he grabs Johnny’s cane, feels the individual scales of the dragon dig into his palm. Taeyong strokes the snake’s flickering tongue with a gentle fingertip, then presses the cane into Johnny’s hand. “Just wait, I’ll let you win later.”


End file.
